


The End of the World (As We Knew It)

by misura



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holding on and letting go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of the World (As We Knew It)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruuger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuger/gifts).



"It meant nothing," Jane insists, to Lisbon, because he feels that if anyone should understand (it, him, the situation, life in general), it should be Lisbon.

He's not a man given to impulse, to acting rashly, even if he knows he gives that impression sometimes. There's a difference, though, between relying on hunches (that are not, strictly speaking, hunches, because Jane's hunches are always right) and doing things simply because you feel like doing them.

"I don't think it's solely up to you to decide that," she says, with the calmth he's come to know means she wants to grab him and shake what she perceives as 'sense' into him. "Do you?"

And it's easy, when he closes his eyes, to call back the memory: the shooter, perfectly positioned, and the sensation of being trapped and helpless and about to die, unfulfilled, just another fraud with delusions of grandeur at the end.

Van Pelt, screaming, pushing him out of the way and taking that impossible shot. (She screamed to warn him, to gain a few seconds, to draw the shooter's attention. _She's_ not the one who lost his nerve, gave up, resigned himself to being lost.)

He remembers thinking her fierce and beautiful and perfect, reaching to brush a stray lock of hair out of her face, after, when the silence confirmed what his hunches had told him already: that she'd made the shot and that they were safe.

He remembers the stark shock of his lips on hers, the weight of her body on top of his own. Her hair, tickling his skin and the sound of her breathing.

People connect, in times of stress. It happens. It doesn't mean anything. He's made his choices and his bed, and Grace has no place in it.

"You do good work here," Lisbon says, more softly, less like she's telling him things she feels he should know and acknowledge already. "You helped us out in a lot of cases. Does that mean nothing to you, too?"

 _Yes!_ he wants to say, because Red John is still out there, still free, and it's not fair to make this about that, to turn a simple 'thanks for saving my life' sort of kiss into a metaphor for all of the work he's done here, all the meaningless hours he's put into solving cases that didn't have anything to do with Red John. "I'm sure you guys would do fine without me," he says, instead. (He's lying.)

"I'm not sure if the reverse would also be true," Lisbon says, with a too sharp smile. (She knows him too well.) "Think about it, will you?"

A pat on the shoulder ('job well done', maybe, or 'glad you're still with us') and she's gone, leaving him with the question and the memory, a wedding band, still on his finger, and a glimpse of something new and bright and shiny, dangling right in front of him, daring him to reach for it.


End file.
